No, I Don't Need Soup!
by jublke
Summary: Sam's having eye problems (because this is one of my stories). Dean is worried about Sam; Sam thinks it's long past time for Dean to worry about going to hell. Brotherly schmoop. Sick!Sam, Worried!Sam, Caring!Sam, Worried!Dean, Caring!Dean. Set in Season 3, sometime after 3.7, "Fresh Blood." Somewhat AU. Rated T for swearing. Now with a sappy second chapter! Complete for now.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun.

This piece is set in Season 3, sometime after 3.7, "Fresh Blood." Somewhat AU. Rated T for Dean. Dean is worried about leaving Sam; Sam thinks it's long past time for Dean to worry about going to hell. Sam might need glasses because this is one of my stories. Brotherly schmoop. Sick!Sam, Worried!Sam, Caring!Dean. This was a one-shot, but the muse handed me a second chapter.

I'm still new to the fandom, so if you see any continuity or other errors, or if you want to beta any future stories, please drop me a line. Thanks!

* * *

"Find anything yet?" Dean attempted to close the tattered floral curtains in their current crappy motel room before turning to stare at his younger brother.

Sam looked up from the laptop computer he was hunched over and glared at him from one of the twin beds. "Not in the last five minutes since you asked, no." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose before turning back to the computer. Pages of notes and photocopies about their latest case littered the small bed in an arc around him.

Dean turned to the window again, watching rivulets of rain run down the glass. The drops reflected streetlights and car headlights, and, if Dean had been in a better mood, he might have admitted that the effect was cool. Instead, he pulled his plaid flannel overshirt closer to ward against the chill. The motel room smelled of musty linens and old sweat socks, giving Dean a touch of claustrophobia. He'd be so much happier on a hunt right now, armed with rock salt and razor-sharp knives. But Sam had been feeling run-down for a few days and Dean had reluctantly agreed to turn in early. The weather was terrible anyway - cold and wet and dreary. It fit Dean's mood perfectly.

How many months before his life ended in a pit of fiery despair? Dean had managed to block out the exact number, although he knew that Sammy kept a running mental stopwatch, right down to the last minute. The novelty of knowing that he could do anything he wanted before he died - take any risks, what did it matter, he was going to hell regardless - had begun to wear off, to be replaced by a cold sense of dread. He'd be leaving Sam behind. Funny, in the time it took to make the Crossroads deal and even for a few months after, his brain hadn't registered the fact that he'd be leaving his younger brother without a caretaker, breaking his father's cardinal rule: Watch out for Sammy.

Dean studied Sam from across the room. He hadn't coughed once since Dean had given him cold medicine at lunch. That was a relief. His brother definitely needed a haircut - that floppy mess was always right in his eyes. Dean wasn't sure he wanted to tackle that particular fight right now; Sammy loved his long hair. His eyes traveled down Sam's worn flannel shirt, so similar to his own, buttoned over a pale blue henley. The edges of the sleeves were frayed, reminding Dean that Sam really needed to get some new clothes, including a warmer field jacket. One of his brother's large hands anxiously tapped a pen against a pad of paper while the other massaged his left temple. The look on Sam's face was a cross between frustration and pain, and Dean found himself walking toward their first aid kit before his mind had even registered what he'd seen.

The older hunter brought a pill bottle and a cup of water back from the bathroom and plunked the water on the nightstand next to Sam. Popping the childproof lock, he took out three tablets and held them out to his baby brother. "Here."

Sam blinked blearily up at him. "What for?" he asked in annoyance.

"Your headache." Dean handed him the cup and dropped the pills into his other hand.

"I don't have a -"

"Yes, you do."

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, but took the medication with a gulp of water. The fact that he actually swallowed the pills confirmed Dean's theory that his brother was in pain. Nonetheless, Sam continued to deny it. "I'm fine."

Dean threw up a hand. "Whatever, man. You're doing that squinty thing with your eyes again." He sat down on the bed opposite his brother and folded his arms.

Sam frowned at him, deepening the furrows between his eyebrows. "What're you talking about?" He gave Dean a puzzled bitch face, narrowing his eyes at him in confusion.

"Exactly like that," Dean said in a matter-of-fact tone. Sam relaxed his features and rolled his eyes with a huff. Gesturing at his own face, Dean added, "When you read for too long, your eyes start to cross. That's why you've been getting those headaches." He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the pillows on his bed. "I think you need glasses."

Dean didn't have to look to know that Sammy's classic bitch face had returned. "I don't need glasses, Dean. My eyes are just tired. I've been researching for hours while you've done nothing but stare out the window. If you'd help me out once in awhile -"

"Stop changing the subject."

"What subject?" Sam gave his brother a wide-eyed look of irritation. "There is no subject here, Dean. There only point of this stupid conversation is for you to get a rise out of me." He took another sip of water and gestured lewdly at his brother. "There. Happy?"

Dean sat up in bed. "I'm serious, Sam. You've got to start taking better care of yourself. I ain't gonna be around forever, you know." He folded his arms and frowned.

He spoke with such earnestness that Sam's mouth dropped open. The younger Winchester took his time before he replied, and even then, his tone still reflected surprise. "You've got to be kidding me. Your last year on earth is ticking down and this is what you're worrying about?" Sam shook his head, causing his hair to fall in his eyes again. He brushed his bangs away roughly with one hand. "You're going to hell, Dean!" He gave his brother an imploring look. "We need to focus on the Crossroads deal."

"Exactly my point, Sammy. You can't focus." The face Sam gave Dean managed to convey annoyance, irritation, and just the tiniest sliver of affection. Dean smiled in return and lifted his eyebrows. His voice held a trace of compassion as the smile faded. "You haven't told me I'm wrong."

Sam huffed, closed the computer, set it on the shelf of the nightstand. "I'm fine, Dean," he said with a sigh. Dean could hear the exhaustion laced through the words. Sam leaned back on his bed and threw an arm across his eyes. Reaching over, Dean turned out the nearest lamp, bathing the room in semi-darkness. He was pleased to see the tension begin to drain from Sam's shoulders. "I had my eyes tested back at Stanford. They're fine," his little brother mumbled into his arm.

"A lot's happened since then." Dean's voice was gentle.

Sam dropped his arm and sighed. "We don't have the money."

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "I think we can spare ten bucks for a pair of reading glasses. Money's not that tight." He waited for Sam's reply, but the room was so silent that he only heard the patter of rain, interspersed with an unmistakable crinkle of sleet as the drops began to freeze against the glass. It felt like a warning to Dean, a reminder of everything unpleasant that was headed his way. He forced himself not to speak, to let the silence fill the room until it made Sammy uncomfortable too.

Finally, Sam spoke. "I tried."

"You tried what?"

"Reading glasses. At the drugstore. You were off with that exotic dancer and I had some time to kill. Didn't help."

Dean digested that. He'd been fishing around about his brother's suspected problems, not really sure if the pattern he thought he'd detected was something real or an artifact of his own stressed mind. But apparently, he'd caught a live one here. Sam had been concerned enough about his vision to try on glasses. Dean tried to imagine the scenario - Sam looming in a drugstore, towering over a display of reading glasses with floral cases and cutesy names like PowerSavers or BrightSight, and then, having gotten over his embarrassment at trying on the damn things in the first place, realizing that they didn't help anyway.

And where was Dean at the time? Screwing some chick senseless in the back of a car. _A very hot car_ , he reminded himself.

"So, you need an eye exam. So what? Won't cost that much."

His brother's voice emerged very small. "And if I need glasses, Dean? And contacts? You know how much that costs."

Dean did. The eye clinic was one place Dean refused to use fake credit cards. They held his prescription hostage and Dean couldn't function without it. He ordered his contacts from them every few months under the name Ackles Jensen and had them shipped to random motels around the country. Ackles always paid in cash.

Sam sighed again. "It's not worth getting worked up over, Dean. I can see well enough. My eyes only bother me when I'm tired."

"Or sick, or stressed. That's half our lives, Sammy. If you need glasses, you're getting glasses," Dean replied with certitude. "Or contacts. Whatever. We'll work it out." The only reply was a sniff from the other bed. "You need more cold medicine?"

There was no reply.

"Is your fever back? I could make you some soup -"

"No, I don't need soup! Just stop it, Dean! Stop focusing on me. You need to start taking care of yourself for a change." Sam's words dropped to a near whisper. "None of this other stuff matters." He swallowed. "There's only one thing I need, Dean. I need my brother." His voice cracked over the words, and Dean realized that Sam was on the verge of tears.

He crossed the small space between the beds, shoved the papers aside, and sat beside his little brother. Gesturing at the tall man to roll over on his stomach, Dean began to massage the tension out of Sam's shoulders. "I'm right here, Sammy."

"Not for long." Sam's voice was thick. "I've researched everything I can think of, Dean. I tried making a deal with the Crossroads Demon. I even killed her, hoping it would break the contract." A strangled gulp escaped his lips as the tears began to break free. "Nothing worked! I don't know what else to do." He spoke in a trembling voice. "I can't lose you. I can't do this without you, Dee." His brother sobbed quietly into the pillow.

Dean gave Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. There was nothing he could say. He knew how Sam felt, the desperate horror of watching someone you love die right before your eyes and knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it.

 _But Sammy's not gonna die_ , he reminded himself. _That's part of the deal - he has to learn to live without me instead._ Suddenly, Dean's throat felt very tight and he realized that his own eyes were watery. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered. _I'm so sorry._


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun.

Okay, there is absolutely no good reason to have continued this story, but it occurred to me that maybe Sam's eye problems weren't a quick fix. How would Dean react?

This chapter is set in Season 3, about six months after Dean makes the Crossroads deal. Somewhat AU. Rated T for swearing. Brotherly schmoop. I'm calling this done for now, but I may add more if the muse strikes again.

I'm still new to the fandom, so if you see any continuity or other errors, or if you want to beta any future stories, please drop me a line. Thanks!

I appreciate the comments from hectatess, anilkex, and Dr. Serpico on the previous chapter. My thanks to my younger son for reading this section over for typos, even if he did say it was way too sappy. Any remaining errors are mine.

* * *

Dean sat in the front seat of the Impala and stared at the door of the eye clinic. Still no sign of Sam. By his count, his brother should have finished at least an hour ago. Dean picked up his phone and glared at it. Nothing. He checked the time again and flicked another glance at the door, tempted to disregard his brother's request that he wait in the car.

Sam's bushy head finally emerged, dipped low as though his Sasquatch of a brother wore the weight of the world on his shoulders. In his arms, he carried a thin folder with a gigantic logo of an eye on the cover. Dean frowned, wondering about the contents. He'd expected to see Sam clutching a single slip of paper bearing an eyeglass prescription, not an entire notebook of material. His stomach clenched as his brother walked toward the car. Sam was chewing his lower lip, something he only did when he was very upset. Dean suspected that if he could see his brother's face, Sam would be wearing his sad puppy look. But his eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses and his brother appeared to be studying the pavement.

"Hey," Dean greeted Sam as he entered the car. "Took you long enough." Green eyes sought out hazel, but Sam kept the sunglasses on and refused to meet his brother's gaze.

The younger hunter sat down with a gusty sigh and stared out the windshield. "Sorry." He didn't offer anything else.

"What took so long?" Dean maneuvered the Impala out of the parking lot and merged with traffic.

Sam shrugged. "Just thorough, I guess." He leaned his head back against the seat.

Dean turned to study his brother. It wasn't like Sam to be so cryptic. Usually, you couldn't steer the kid away from conversation. "You okay?"

"Can we head back to the room and order dinner in? It's too bright out here." When Sam wrinkled his nose in what Dean thought of as bitch face number 5, he had had enough.

He slammed on the brakes, forcing his brother to look at him. The driver behind them honked and swerved around the Impala. Dean ignored her. Now that he had Sam's attention, he demanded, "What did the doctor say?"

Sam looked away. "Nothing much." He swallowed. "You were right. I need glasses."

 _Could Sam be this upset at the thought of wearing glasses?_ Dean didn't think so. He tested the waters. "No big deal. They're just for reading, right?" He stepped on the accelerator and resumed driving.

His brother sighed. "I'm supposed to wear them all of the time."

 _Maybe that's the problem._ Dean could relate, although he hadn't relied solely on glasses in years. Contact lenses were so much easier. "You could always get contacts."

"I guess," Sam replied. His large hands fidgeted with the folder in his lap.

"What is all that?"

There was a slight pause before Sam replied. "Uh ... just some information the doctor wants me to read."

Dean was sorely tempted to stomp on the brakes again, rush hour traffic or not. "What kind of stuff?"

"Dean, it's not important, okay?" Sam's voice held an undercurrent of something raw and vulnerable, and Dean ground his teeth to keep from saying something he'd regret. He let the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Sam's leg began to tap against the floor until he was practically quivering. Dean waited him out, but the silent treatment didn't have the desired effect. It was a quiet ride back to the motel, late afternoon sun streaming through the windshield. Dean pulled the car into a parking space in front of their rented room, turned off the ignition, and abruptly snatched the folder from Sam's lap.

"Hey!" Sam reached for it, but Dean was faster. He exited the car, ran for the motel room, and slid the deadbolt in place before Sam could enter.

His brother pounded on the door. "Dean! Open up, you stupid jerk! It's bright out here and my eyes are killing me."

Dean stood just inside the door. "You promise to tell me what the hell's going on?"

A pause. "Fine. I promise. Just let me in."

Dean flipped the lock and opened the door. Sam burst in and flopped down on the far bed. "God, it's nice to be someplace dark," he mumbled into the pillows, still wearing his sunglasses.

Dean closed the door and slid the deadbolt back in place before sitting next to him and opening the folder. The expected prescription for Jared Jensen (younger brother of Ackles Jensen) was in there, but there was more: two referrals to other doctors, a pamphlet on vision therapy, a photocopied sheet of instructions for staring at a pencil, fliers on strabismus and intermittent esotropia, and a promotional sheet for an eye surgery center in Denver. _What the hell?_

"Sam?"

His brother rolled over and sat up slowly. "What?"

"What is all of this? What's intermittent esotropical?"

Dean suspected that Sam was rolling his eyes, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses on. "Esotropia. It's a fancy way of saying that my eyes cross sometimes."

"They need a term for that? Your eyes cross because you need glasses." When Sam didn't immediately answer, Dean added, "Right?"

Sam blew out a breath. "Maybe." At Dean's puzzled look, he added, "Can you order us a pizza? I'm starving." He took the sunglasses off and Dean's hand automatically went for his knife. Sam's pupils were so large that his hazel irises appeared to be missing.

"Whoa! Dean!"

The older hunter held the knife in a defensive posture. He backed toward his own bed and fumbled around, one-handed, in his duffel.

"You are not seriously going to throw holy water on me! I'm not a demon. My eyes are dilated, you moron!"

Dean splashed him anyway. "Can't be too careful, Sammy." Nothing happened, except that his now wet brother gave him the death glare. Dean resheathed his knife. "Tell me what the doctor said. In English."

"Order my pizza first."

"Bitch," Dean said, but he was smiling as he dialed.

Sam waited until he had placed the order to reply. "Jerk."

* * *

Dean held off until Sam had downed two slices of pizza before he pressured him again. "So, you have this eso ... eso ..." Wide green eyes looked to dull hazel-black for help. Sam's eyes were finally starting to adjust to the light.

"Esotropia. It's a form of strabismus." At Dean's vacant look, Sam tried to explain. "It means the eyes turn in." Sam wiped the grease from his fingers on a napkin. "But in my case it's intermittent and only my right eye does it. They did extra testing after I mentioned that my brother noticed my eyes crossing when I try to read." Dean shrugged and Sam went on. "He thinks it's accommodative, meaning glasses will correct it. I'm more far-sighted in my right eye than my left. But he's not sure that's the only thing going on. There could be other causes for my eye to turn in, especially if it's a recent development." At Dean's frown, Sam continued. "It would help if I'd had ever a proper eye exam. That screening at Stanford was nothing like this. Either I've had a mild form of strabismus for years and it was never diagnosed, or it's something new." Sam's forehead crinkled. "When did you start noticing my eyes crossing?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Seems like you've always done it when you're really tired or stressed or sick. But it's definitely been worse lately."

Sam nodded. "That's what I thought, too. The doctor didn't like that answer. He asked me if I'd had a head injury recently."

Dean winced, thinking of just how many times Sam had been knocked around in the past few months. _Does dying count?_ "I guess you told him yes." He licked some pizza sauce from one finger and took a swig of beer.

Sam nodded. "He wants me to have a physical to rule out an injury or illness that could be affecting the eye muscles and causing my eye to cross."

"Okay." Dean watched Sam warily, wondering how much worse this news could get.

"And I'm supposed to consult with the ophthalmologic surgeon, to get some baseline measurements."

Dean felt his stomach curdle and wrapped a protective arm around his middle. He fought to keep his voice level. "You need surgery?"

Sam stared at his hands as he spun his beer bottle around on the cheap Formica table. "Maybe. He wants me to try wearing the glasses and doing a half-hour of daily eye exercises for awhile and then he'll reassess me."

"Then what?"

Sam shrugged. "If the problem gets worse, they'll recommend surgery."

"And if you don't have surgery?"

Dean could swear that Sam's face visibly paled at the thought. "The double vision could become constant."

The older hunter swore. "You didn't tell me you were having double vision!"

Sam looked at him through his bangs and shrugged. "If my eyes are crossed, I'm having double vision, Dean." He took a long slug of beer.

The older brother sighed. "So, when do you go back?"

Sam bit his lower lip. "Six months."

Suddenly, the room didn't have enough air. Dean rushed toward the door, flipped the open the locks, and burst outside to stand in the coolness of early evening. Leaning against the warm brick wall of the motel building, he opened and closed his eyes rapidly as he panted, trying to regain his bearings. _Six months? I won't be here in six months._

His vision began to tunnel, and Dean could tell that he was starting to hyperventilate. He squatted down and put his head on his knees, but it didn't help. He felt nauseous and dizzy. _Six months until my brother might need surgery and I won't be here. I'll be in hell._

Dean staggered to the nearest trash can, threw off the lid with a clatter, and threw up.

Warm hands grasped his shoulders. "Dean. Hey, Dean. Let's get back to the room, okay?" His brother gave his shoulders a squeeze.

An old woman stood in the doorway of her room and glared at them as Sam guided Dean down the row of motel doors facing the parking lot. "Stupid drunks."

Sam tightened his grip on his big brother. "Ignore her," he muttered into Dean's ear. Sam steered Dean back into their room and helped him sit down on a chair. "I'm going to get you a Sprite, okay?"

Dean nodded numbly and tried to regain control of his stomach, which was still spasming painfully. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the pizza and weakly shoved the remnants of their dinner across the table. He lay his head down on the cold surface. _Six months. Six months until I'm in hell. Six months until my baby brother is all alone in the world. And I put him there._ It didn't matter to Dean that without his intervention, Sam would be dead. All he could think of was, _six months until I fail Dad._

A can of soda was pressed against his cheek and Dean felt a hand on his forehead. "No fever. You feeling any better?"

Dean nodded and accepted the soda. Flicking the pop top, he took a cautious sip before setting it aside and rubbing his eyes. Sam placed a wet washcloth in his hand as he sat down beside him. "Here."

The older hunter wiped his face and took a shuddering breath. "Okay." He looked at Sam. His brother's hazel irises had reappeared, and with them, a compassionate and worried expression. Dean caught his eyes before looking away. "We should head to the mall and pick out your frames -"

"Dean -" Sam interrupted.

"- or contacts if you want -"

"Dean -"

"- and then we should call in some favors and set up those doctor appointments. The physical's the most important thing, we can wait on the -"

"Dean!" Sam was standing. "We're not doing any of that right now. You just threw up. You need to take it easy."

"But -"

"No buts." Sam folded his arms and glared at his brother. He could be a menacing son of a bitch when he tried. "We can get my glasses tomorrow. I'm going to call that guy - you remember the doctor from the bedtime story murders? - and see if he can help me out. He owes me a favor." At Dean's hangdog expression, Sam placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm taking care of this, Dean. It's not your fight."

Dean could feel himself veering directly into chick-flick territory, but he couldn't help himself. Clasping his hand over his brother's, Dean swallowed over the lump in his throat and spoke in a whisper. "That's what I'm afraid of."


End file.
